Looking
by Becky215
Summary: While Thornton wonders if he will ever see her again, Margaret takes things upon herself when she realizes Marlborough Mills is in trouble.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer_: No copyright infringement is intended.

**Looking**

**By Becky215**

Dixon was gentle with the hairbrush, guiding it through her mistress' hair with careful strokes and thoughtful caresses. Margaret watched her own reflection in the mirror. Cupping her chin in her hand, she sighed to herself and paid little mind to the diligent work of her maid.

The room was filled with the smell of fresh roses and lilacs; Edith insisted that fresh flowers be placed in the bedrooms each week, and the latest arrangement brought shades of pink, purple, yellow, and ivory to the dresser beside Margaret's bed. The sweet scent was intoxicating, but Margaret hardly noticed. Indeed, the young lady noticed hardly anything in those days. London bustled by her window, and a springtime sun hung high in the sun, but her thoughts were lost in the clouded smoke of Milton memories.

Dixon was speaking, and she nudged Margaret's shoulder in her quest for a response.  
"I'm sorry, Dixon. What were you saying?"

"I said you'll be needing to take some scissors to this mane before long," Dixon said sourly. Margaret's distraction made the older woman feel ignored and unneeded; she detested both feelings. "Your hair's a might too long, and the ends are getting a bit ragged."

"I suppose we could do it now, then," Margaret replied, plucking a pair of scissors from her toilette.

"Oh, well, miss, perhaps I ought to call someone from town. Surely Miss Edith knows of someone with a hand for such work."

Margaret was not listening. The scissors hung limply from her fingers, and again she watched the twinkle of the sunshine reflected in the mirror.

Tears came to her eyes. The scissors fell to the floor, Dixon abandoned her brush, and Margaret lost herself to the heartache that threatened to consume her whole.

******

John Thornton did not bother to shave on that particular morning. The razor gleamed on his travelling case, but he had little patience for it. In fact, he had little patience for most of what that particular Monday had to offer. The rain clouds reflected the pain in his heart that he'd hoped to ignore, and his mother was eager to discuss some distressing discoveries she'd found in the household accounts.

He examined his reflection as he reached for his cravat. There were ghostly circles yawning beneath his eyes, and he was disgusted by the apathy in his gaze. If he was honest with himself, he did not care about many things in those days. It seemed that the business was going to fall despite his best efforts, and he'd made grudging peace with the fact that there was nothing within his power that would make Margaret Hale come back to him.

He saw the rebellious smile that seized his lips when he thought of her, and in that moment, he hated himself. He remembered hearing about penitents who punished themselves for their sins; in the story, men and women ripped the clothes from their backs and whipped themselves with leather thongs. Blood and pain were meant to cleanse them of their crimes against God.

Thornton looked in the mirror and wondered if his heart had adopted a similar philosophy. In spite of the pain, his heart reached out for her in every moment of every day, and he often wondered if his desire existed only to punish him for the audacity of his desire. He thought of her constantly, stroking his heart with pain that made him writhe and despair. Not for the first time, he wondered why he subjected himself to such agony. Indeed, he often feared that he was damned to a life of vivid dreams and fantasies that would never come true.

He'd slept fitfully the night before. He woke with the ghost of her in his arms, and for a few sweet moments he'd imagined that he could feel the warmth of her skin against his own. He was surprised that lust and desire were absent from those short breaths of perfection; he did not imagine her body moving against his own, nor did he pretend that she'd given herself to him. He simply awoke to think that she was sleeping beside him, that he might open his eyes to find her smiling down at him, that he might reach out and hold her small hand in his own as the day greeted them both.

He'd been wrong, and the discovery that another day must be met alone had drained him of his energy before he'd even taken his breakfast.

******

Margaret dried her eyes and dressed in time for breakfast. Mr. Bell was expected in the early hours of the morning, and it was to be her first visit with him since her father's death. The news had been devastating, but Margaret took some solace in the knowledge that Mr. Bell had been there to comfort her father in the final hours of his life. Richard Hale had died suddenly in his sleep, but Margaret liked to think that he and his school friend had enjoyed a satisfying meal and invigorating conversation in the dwindling hours of twilight.

She selected a navy blue gown made of cotton; she'd purchased it in Milton, and she remembered how Bessie Higgins had fawned over the small gold buttons cascading down the back of the bodice.

"Such fancy work," she remembered Bessie sighing. "Not a bit o' anything practical to it, but it's fine, miss. Just fine."

She missed Bessie on days like this. In truth, she missed the luxury of sharing quiet secrets with another woman. She and Edith had always talked about life and its surprises, but marriage and motherhood had changed her cousin's outlook. Edith liked to gossip and imagine, but she was not overly fond of discussing the conundrums and worries of a single lady's life. Edith wanted Margaret to marry Henry, and she could not understand why her cousin continued to resist her brother-in-law's advances.

Breakfast was simple. Edith held Sholto on her knee as she sampled a few slices of fruit from her plate, but she beamed when Margaret entered the dining room.

"There we are! What a lovely gown," she smiled. Margaret knew that Edith had little interest in Milton fabrics, but she also knew that her cousin could not bear melancholy and sorrow. She would say what needed to be said if it would make Margaret smile.

"I suppose that dark blue is at least a small step away from black," Aunt Shaw said softly. Margaret pretended not to hear her as she took her seat, and she chose instead to ask Edith what her plans were for the afternoon. The young mother had barely begun her reply when a servant stepped into the room to announce Mr. Bell's arrival.

Margaret excused herself from the table and hurried to the foyer, smiling when she saw her family's old friend with his hat in hand. Mr. Bell embraced her for a moment before tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow; he saw sorrow and uncertainty in her eyes, and he could barely contain his curiosity.

She led him to the parlor and offered him a cup of tea, and she listened politely as he talked of his journey and reiterated his regrets over her father's passing. He assured her that the funeral had been serene and simple, just as Richard Hale would have preferred, but he looked up at her with a resigned sigh.

"I'm boring you, aren't I, my girl?" he clucked.

"I'm sorry," she blushed. "I'm afraid my thoughts keep getting the better of my mind these days. I assure you that I was listening quite intently."

Bell only chuckled and reclined in his chair, admiring the young girl with a kind smile. He'd lived long enough to recognize the forlorn emptiness of a lover with no one to love; he'd had his suspicions of her relationship with Thornton, but he respected propriety well enough to know that it was not a subject to pursue outright. Nonetheless, he leaned forward and ventured, "I've had a talk with Thornton. It seems his mill is not doing as well as it should at this time of the season. The strike left quite a mark on his accounts, and from what I can gather, he and his mother are planning to close the mill."

"Close the mill!" Margaret could barely contain the horror of her disbelief. Every memory of Milton was colored with the shades and textures of life in the mill; the white cotton falling like snow upon the workers, the carousing laughter of the workers on their way home from the mill, the pale pink sunlight that reached over the building's gates in the morning hours. It seemed wrong that the town could go on without the mill, and Margaret said as much to her companion.

"Well, it's not as though all of the mills will be closing shop. After all, it's Thornton's competitors who will claim victory if they've ousted him from the business. It's all rather cut-throat, but that's all one can say when it comes to making money," Bell said. He was deliberately dismissive and casual in his tone; he wanted to see her response, and his inkling was rewarded. A fire sparked in the back of Margaret Hale's eyes, and she stood up without a word so she might pace before the window.

"But that's enough about business. You know, my dear, I came here with the idea of inviting you for a short trip, or a holiday. Perhaps to Helstone," he suggested.

Margaret was tempted to smile, but she resisted. On any other day, the news of a trip to Helstone would have filled her with hope and joy, but it seemed wrong to laugh happily when she'd learned of Mr. Thornton's despair. She was grieved to think of how the mill's closure would affect the family; she imagined Thornton's humiliation and the notion of proud tears welling in his mother's eyes, just as she could picture Fanny Watson's smug delight at her brother's failure in light of her new husband's success. Henry Lennox had been talking of Watson's speculations only the night before, and everyone knew that it was peculiar and foolish of John Thornton not to join in with the venture.

She thought of the family, but she could also see the ripples of distress. Margaret began to count off the families who would go without pay from Marlborough Mills. She'd heard the whimpering sobs of hungry children, and a chill crept up her spine as she imagined that ghostly sound echoing through the crowded neighborhoods beyond Crampton.

Margaret turned to Mr. Bell and saw that he was expecting a response. "Oh, I thank you for your kindness, sir, but I cannot go to Helstone. Not now, at least. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"I have a bit of thinking to do," she said vaguely, but her secrecy seemed to enchant her elderly caller. Bell laughed to himself and rose to his feet, but as he moved closer, there was an air of quiet reflection in the room. The tone had shifted, and Mr. Bell had something to say.

******

"We'll have to close," Thornton said decisively.

"When?" Hannah Thornton had no time for sobbing and wringing her hands; she had a thirst for facts and truth. "By week's end?"

"No. Today, or tomorrow at the latest," her son replied soberly. "The purse has enough for today's wages and the last payment for the suppliers. After that, we'll have enough for a week or so before our belts get tight."

"A week! John, I thought…I thought we had some money saved away. Something to live on through a storm or two."

John heard the edge in his mother's voice; for a moment, he remembered her heavy tears at his father's funeral, and he realized the emotions this moment must have summoned. "It's not as bad as all that. I'm making it sound worse than it is. We have some savings, and I'm sure I'll think of something before we're in a workhouse." He meant it as a joke, but neither of them laughed.

"Well, we ought to think of something soon. I just received a letter from that man Bell. He's stopping by tomorrow morning to look after the accounts before leaving for South America. He'll expect some sort of explanation, I'm sure," Hannah spat. She cared little for Bell, and she had even less interest in the way he hovered over her son's shoulder to peer at the account ledgers.

"Very well. We'll have to receive him as usual," Thornton sighed. He stood by the mantle and considered the ashes at the bottom of the grate. Without thinking, he wondered, "Did he happen to mention anything about Miss Hale?"

"No," Hannah replied shortly. "He did not."

"I see."

The room was swallowed by silence. Hannah Thornton swept across the room so she might gaze out the window. The workers were enjoying their stew in the sunshine. Mary Higgins walked about with a ladle as a child carried the pot on a makeshift trolley. Laughter and foolish smiles typified the afternoon, but the Thorntons were quietly lost in their thoughts and fears.

******

Dixon said little on their journey back to Milton. She'd heard most of the story from Margaret the night before, revealed in bursts of breath and tears as she dressed for dinner. The older woman was uneasy with the story that had been shared; from what she could gather, old Bell had offered to make Margaret his wife, and with the grace of a man in his station, he'd graciously ignored the girl's flushed cheeks when she gently refused him. Margaret had plucked the pins from her hair as she explained what had happened next.

"Not four moments had passed before he told me that he's…he's dying!"

"Who, lamb?" Dixon had answered sweetly, combing her fingers through Margaret's hair.

"Mr. Bell! Oh, Dixon, why does everyone have to die?" She paused to gather her breath, steeling herself for battle in a way that reminded the old servant of her former master. She did not cry out or grow impassioned like young Frederick. She merely put away her tears like they were a winter shawl in the springtime; there would be use for them later, but not now. "Of course everyone must die because it is God's will, and of course we must die so there is room for future generations. I only wonder…oh Dixon, why must everyone die now? Mother, Father, Mr. Bell, Mr. Thornton-"

Dixon had caught her breath then, resting her hands on Margaret's shoulders as she said, "Mistress, Mr. Thornton is not dead. He'll be at home in Milton with his mother now, if I imagine correctly. The pair of 'em's probably sitting in front of a fire, thinking sour thoughts and wishing tears on poor innocents."

"You'll not speak of Mr. Thornton that way!" Margaret cried, turning on Dixon with a fury that emerged from the depths of her heart. Her flesh was feverish from her emotions, but she fell back into her chair with a sigh and apologized to her maid. "I am sorry, Dixon. I did not mean that."

"Oh, mistress, I do believe you did." Dixon's voice was laced with suspicion and conviction. She disapproved of Margaret's seeming attachment to the mill master, though she suspected the girl's mother might not have been so averse to the match.

"Perhaps you are right," Margaret whispered, the warmth of her breath stirring the candlelight on the dresser. "Perhaps you are right."

"About what?"

"Mr. Thornton. I know he's not dead, it only…it only seems that way," she sighed. "How can a person seem so far away when once you could have touched them with a smile?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Miss Margaret."

That had ended their conversation, but the next morning the maid had woken to find her mistress folding a gown into an overnight bag. She'd fixed her own hair and hurried into the first dress she could find from the rack. The green gown accented the fury of her curls that resisted the chignon at the nape of her neck, and Dixon was frazzled as Margaret hastily explained that they were off for Milton in an hour's time.

"Why are we going to Milton again?" Dixon asked testily. She loathed long train rides; the compartment was too cramped, and the cloudy skies revealed a sun so bright that she developed a headache.

"Mr. Bell explained that he's left me all of his money."

"What!"

"I'm to be his heir. Apparently he and Father decided it between themselves. Since Mr. Bell's illness is imminent, he's retiring to the Americas, and he wanted me to take his money and…put it to good use, I suppose."

"So? Why are we going to Milton? Not a soul there knows what to do with a dollar, mark my words."

"That might be your opinion, Dixon, but I've my own idea."

"I'm a bit frightened as to what that might be."

"Never mind that," Margaret said. There was the shadow of a smile on her lips, and Dixon realized it was the happiest she'd seen the girl since her father's death.

"You'll not be visiting those Thorntons today, will you?"

The smile only grew wider, and Margaret said, "I've learned something, Dixon. In only a few days, or rather in these long weeks that feel like ages, I've learned that I am tired of waiting for happiness. It won't find me buried under brocade skirts in London. I shall have to find it on my own."

"And Milton…"

Margaret gazed out the window for a moment, watching the lush wonder of London disappearing behind her, and she sighed. "Milton seems like the best place to start looking."

******

Higgins found his master standing in the center of his office. A stack of books and journals rested at the edge of the large wooden desk, and four account ledgers were open at his feet. Thornton looked down at the pages with a vacant stare; he was deep in thought, and Higgins realized that his presence had not been noticed when he'd knocked on the door.

"Sir?"

"Oh, Higgins. Come in," Thornton replied, startled from his reverie. He scooped the accounts into his arms and placed them on a shelf as he returned to his desk chair. "Well?"

"It's the men, sir. I've come from their dinner table. There's rumors about, word o' the mill closin' and work bein' lost. I told 'em you knew what you were after, but there's a lot of muscle in that room and not enough brains to match. I reckon they'd rather hear it from your mouth instead o' mine."

Thornton regarded Higgins with a watchful eye; the man was easily the best foreman he'd ever encountered, but he often wondered how Higgins counted himself when thinking of his men. Was he a worker, just like them, or was he prepared to fight on Thornton's side? The question had plagued the young master for weeks since he'd hired Higgins for the job, but he reminded himself that the mill would soon be closed, and the line between masters and men would be erased forever.

Higgins had been studying his employers with equal attention, and he saw the sweeping concern in Thornton's eyes. "You'll not need to say a word, sir."

"What?"

"About the mill. I can tell from your face that she'll be closing before the week is out, aye?"

"Yes," Thornton said, sighing as though he were relieved to have someone else who could share his concern for the business. "Yes, we cannot push past Friday."

"It's a damn shame, if you'll pardon my tongue," Higgins said solemnly.

"I'm not sure I could think of a better way to put it," his employer replied wryly. "You'll assure the workers that they'll be paid for the entire week's work."

"Doubt they'd imagine anything different," Higgins assured him. He paused in the doorway and added, "You've done a fine job, you know. I worked in many a mill in my time, and this is somethin' to be seen."

"Yes, a mill with a workers' dining room for workers it can no longer afford to employ. Quite impressive."

"It is," Higgins replied evenly. "It's a might more than most masters'd do for their men, and I assure you it makes 'em owe you fealty."

"Well, I suppose that's all for today, Higgins."

"Aye, sir." He started for the door, but with a gleam in his eye he paused once more. "I hope you'll tell Miss Margaret that we wish her well."

"Miss Hale is not in Milton, Higgins. You know that."

"There you're wrong, sir. She'll have been by to see my Mary earlier this morning. The girl told me as much when she fed me my supper." He delighted in the startled mix of fear and joy on Thornton's face.

"You're sure?"

"As sure as the snow that falls in January. She's here, and I'll aim to imagine she'll come to visit you this evening. She told Mary that she's in town for a bit of business or something, though god only knows what business that lady finds to call her own."

Thornton wanted to smile, but he resisted and dismissed his foreman once again. Alone in his office, he looked out the window and saw that the clouds were gathering. He looked beyond them, just as he often looked beyond the smoke and soot of winter, and he imagined that she was out there somewhere, in Milton, walking on the cobblestones with the world falling to her feet, begging her to stay.

******

Her visit to Mary Higgins was brief, for she was startled to discover that the girl had to hurry off to work. Margaret was horrified to imagine poor Bessie's sister working in the mills, but Mary assured her that she was committed to simpler labor.

"A kitchen? Mr. Thornton?" Margaret asked after Mary explained her errand. "I can hardly believe it."

"Aye, miss, ye should. The master and Father had a long chat about it all, something about how workers work better when they've eaten more than oats and water. Father said man's more than a horse, so how can one think he could get by on a beast's supper. Mr. Thornton nearly laughed at that one, and I daresay I nearly dropped half the chicken I was cutting when I saw him smile. Or thought I saw him smile."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, folk do talk, and they say Mr. Thornton's smile is something of a mystery."

"How so?"

"Cause no one's seen it," Mary shrugged. Margaret balked and blushingly assured her friend that Thornton had a fine smile, but Mary chuckled and said, "Aye, Father says that too. I mean, not about the smile being fine or anything o' the sort, but he says the man has feelings like the rest of us and can laugh at something jolly. I just thought it a surprise. T'were after that when Father suggested the kitchen that Mr. Thornton said he'd look at some figures and see if it could be done, and I were hired on the spot to make the food and serve it to the men at the table."

Margaret was impressed, and as she watched young Mary hurry off to the mill, she thought of their conversation. She liked the idea of Mr. Thornton working so closely with Nicholas; they had so much to teach one another, and she felt a pang when she remembered that their time together was coming to a close as the mill hurtled towards closure.

She'd left Dixon at the house in Crampton. The landlord had been unable to find a tenant since Margaret's departure, and for a few pounds he'd agreed to let her stay the night. The house was haunted by echoes and silence; most of the furniture had been removed, but a few remnants were in place to offer a few comforts for the night. Dixon had set about unpacking Margaret's small bag before hurrying to town. She'd mentioned that there were some accounts to be settled from before their winter departure. Aunt Shaw had insisted on such a hasty leave-taking that the butcher and draper had yet to receive their payments.

Margaret found the house empty when she arrived back home. She abandoned her hat, and for a moment she imagined that her mother was calling to her from the parlor upstairs. It was a silly thing to imagine; Margaret had made peace with the quiet, aching losses of her parents, but there were days when it was easy and comforting to imagine that they were still at home. She stood in the foyer, stretching her arms overhead to relieve the tension from the morning's journey and her walk from the Higgins home. It had been a long day, but there was still much to be done.

A knock on the door pulled her away from her thoughts, and she was surprised to find the Boucher boy standing on the stoop.

"Hello, darling. How lovely to see you again!" Margaret exclaimed.

"Hello, Miss Marg'ret, The master wants to see you," he said quickly. She imagined that he'd memorized the message, for it was delivered with swift precision.

"Mr. Thornton?" She panicked, wondering how he'd learned that she was in town and flushed to consider what he might have to say. "Alright. Let me get my hat."

******

He'd spent the better part of an hour debating the issue, but Thornton ultimately decided not to tell his mother about Margaret's visit. It would be easier to talk with her in the quiet of the mill office, and he had no doubt that his mother might prevent others from speaking what was in their hearts.

He stood at his desk in his shirtsleeves, studying his hands and wondering how he might best bring up the subject. But what subject? He faltered when he considered all that he wanted to say. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he could lose the mill if he could keep her, that he was sorry for all their understandings. He wanted to ask her who the man at the station had been, how she had fared since losing her beloved father, what she saw when she looked into his eyes. He was startled to discover that he wanted her advice; he wanted to know what she would do to help the mill hands, and he desired her opinions on the next step he should take to resurrecting his career.

He wanted to talk to her. That was all. He looked at the table and wondered what had taken the child so long in finding her. Thornton had a fondness for the Boucher boy, and he knew that the child also enjoyed talking to Margaret. For a moment, he imagined that she and the child had wandered into a sweet shop, that she was biding her time by spoiling the boy with a smile and a piece of warm cake. It would not have surprised him, and it would only have made him love her more..

There was a knock on the door. He tried to save the pace of his heartbeat, but he could not resist drawing a breath as he crossed the room and shrugged into his suit coat. The corridor was bustling with workers; he could hear their voices beyond the door, but when he opened it, he only saw her.

"Miss Hale."

"Mr. Thornton," she smiled, nodding her head as he welcomed her into the room. The Boucher child lingered in the corridor, holding a few silver coins with a mischievous smile that could not be contained. Thornton resisted the urge to laugh and nodded for the boy to hurry back into town with his treasure.

"I hope your journey was smooth."

She turned towards him with a gentle smile, nodding as she bowed her head. "I…Mr. Thornton, must we rest on simple pleasantries?"

He colored, but he was happy to discover that she wanted them to talk about the things that really mattered.

"No, Miss Hale, I don't think we do. I suppose I was only wondering what brought you back to Milton. I seem to recall your saying that you'd be happy never to return."

"I did not say that. My aunt did, and she's harsh towards any place lacking a grand symphony and French carpeting," Margaret said simply. It was then her turn to blush as she added, "I did not mean to sound unkind. My aunt has been very good to me since Father's death, but I feel…I do not feel at home in London."

"But you feel at home here??"

"Would that be such a surprise?" she smiled. He considered the question and thought of the hours she'd devoted to talking with the poor, offering them coins from her purse and smiles from her heart.

"No, it would not." He took a step across the room and leaned against the desk. "What brought you back?"

"Mr. Bell visited me yesterday, and he confided to me that he is ill. He's dying, in fact."

"I'm sorry. He's a good man, even if we've never seen eye to eye on some matters."

"I can imagine," she smiled. "He came to see me, though, and he explained that he wanted to make me his heir. Apparently he and my father had come to some sort of an arrangement before he passed, and because Mr. Bell thinks his own future is rather short, he has decided to transfer his funds on to me. Immediately, in fact."

Thornton said nothing. His mind was hurrying through the story, trying to uncover what it could mean.

"So last night, I was sitting at the dinner table with my cousin and my aunt, listening to them talk about this season's debutantes and the virtues of orchids over orange blossoms, and I could not bear it. I knew, or rather I know, that that is not the life for me. I thought about it, and…and…"

Her voice faltered, and she turned away from him, pressing her hands into the folds of her skirt as she walked towards the window. Thornton watched quietly, his heart in his throat; she shook her head lightly and reached for words once again, begging herself to continue.

"I want to be happy." She said it without ornamentation or tears. It was a simple fact that she declared with naked simplicity.

"Don't we all…" Thornton murmured. His words seemed to remind her that he was present, and she suddenly turned towards him with tearful eyes. He ached to step towards her, but he was unsure. He waited for her next word; he would not be made a fool again, despite his heart's yearning to stand beside her.

"No," she said boldly, "you don't understand." She met his gaze, and he was startled by the stillness of her gaze.

He decided to take a chance; fool or not, he knew that his heart could not bear the anticipation of that moment.

"Help me," he said softly, daring to step closer and hoping he had not misinterpreted the gentle curve of her hidden smile. She started at his words, but he pressed on. "Help me understand."

******

He was close.

It was all she could do to think of the words she wanted to say. She could smell the sweet whisper of his cologne. She wondered if an idea could have texture and taste, for in that moment she was elegantly aware of his nearness; the tone of his voice was smooth and gentle, and the thought of his touch was agonizing in its perfection.

"Help me understand," he said again. Gone was the forcefulness of his proposal in those dark days of the past. He'd changed, and she realized that she had, too. They were a little older, a little wiser, but also far more understanding. She'd come to him so he could teach her all that she wanted to know: how to love someone who loves without question, how to find the future, how to give oneself to the person who knows the secrets waiting to be told. For his part, he'd grown patient and curious; she imagined that he was more cautious with his judgments, and she liked to see how he'd softened since their last meeting.

He moved once again, and the movement wrenched her from her thoughts. He stood across from her at the window, his arm against the frame, and she was reminded of what a fine figure he cut in the spring sunshine. She'd never paused to think that he was older than her own twenty-two years; she looked to him as an equal, and her heart swam to discover that he esteemed her in the same light.

He was looking at her intently, and his hand ventured to touch her elbow with a coaxing gesture. It lasted less than a moment, but the spark ignited a fire in her heart that made her skin flush.

"I've come on business," she said suddenly, turning away from him. She did not know how to pursue and encourage a man's gestures, and she regretted that she'd turned him away in the past. She was ashamed of her fiery cheeks, so she chose to change the subject.

Thornton's disappointment was poorly masked when he replied, "Business, Miss Hale?"

"Yes. I now have a small fortune sitting in a bank with my name on it, and Henry Lennox assures me that I shall only grow richer. Apparently Mr. Bell invested in a speculation with your brother-in-law."

"Yes, I'm sure he did," Thornton said bitterly. "It seems everyone but me has taken a drink from that particular keg."

"I did not mean to upset you," she added quickly.

"No, you've not. I'm sorry to have responded so sharply," he replied. He smiled, and she felt a smile on her own lips that could not be suppressed. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head but unable to resist the arc of his smile. It was lovely; simple and earnest, it set fire to his eyes and made her ache for the music of his laughter. She'd only heard that particular song once or twice in her life, but she knew that she was desperate to hear it for the rest of her days.

"I'm wondering if you're laughing at my expense, Miss Hale," he said sharply, but again his smile betrayed the pretended severity of his tone.

"I am not, I assure you. Sorry, again. It's just one of the girls was telling me that…well, that your smile is a mystery in Milton."

"A mystery?"

"Yes. No one has seen it. Or at least none of the mill girls," she added.

He flushed, but he cleared his throat and said, "I don't smile at ordinary girls."

"I've been told by my aunt that I'm quite ordinary."

"You're the most extraordinary woman I've ever met," he said shortly. His words surprised her, but his tone did not. He spoke with certainty, clarity, and conviction; she could have expected nothing less.

The silence lingered between them, and again he moved closer to her.

"I do have some business to discuss, Mr. Thornton," she began slowly. She pressed her hand against the wooden window frame, but she felt the warm, careful caress of his fingers over her own. He stood behind her, taking a chance once again, and he gambled his heart as he waited for her response.

She bowed her head and leaned into the window. Her knuckles were white beneath his hand, but his thumb ventured across the hills and valleys of flesh and bone. Her hair smelled of flowers and springtime; he dared to touch her waist so she might draw closer.

She could barely breathe. She was aware of every touch, every whispered breath. His hand circled around her waist, and she breathlessly captured his fingers in her grasp.

"I only…"

He could barely hear her whisper, but he was not prepared to release her. She kept his hand pressed to her waist, and she wondered if he was keeping her from forever falling into his arms. He brushed his lips carefully over the fine curve of her jaw; her back was firm against his chest, but she did not resist. She trembled, but she knew that he saw her smile.

He grew bolder, turning her face towards his lips so he might kiss her lips. She was delicious and perfect, just as he'd always imagined.


	2. Chapter 2

He knew that moments were not made to last a lifetime. He tried to remember another memory that might carry the same sweet perfume as the one he was making now, but his mind was unwilling to wander from Margaret's lips. He held her in his arms, offering her his heart, and to his delight she was taking it.

He felt the faint brush of her fingers slipping through his hair, and for an instant he feared he might lose himself completely. He knew he ought to stop what he was doing; he could almost hear his mother's harsh critiques of women losing their character in liaisons behind closed doors. Still he could not pull away; his heart and his mind worked together to convince him that this was different, this girl was irreplaceable, this touch was unique, this moment belonged only to them.

She breathed a sigh against his lips, and his world was undone.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. For a flickering moment, he feared she would leave and take away his hopes, but she stayed in his arms with her gaze cast to the floor. She touched his shoulder and pressed her cheek to the starched lapels of his jacket. He wished to make her comfortable and happy, just as he wished she might smile.

"For what? What can you have to apologize for?" he replied, startled by the sound of his own voice. "For making me into a man worthy of your love?"

"No," she sighed, closing her eyes and reaching for his hand. "I'm sorry for having been such a woman who was so undeserving of yours."

"You'll not talk that way," he said roughly, his voice laden with such passion and conviction that it pulled her gaze away from the floorboards. "I'm a man on the edge of ruin after twenty-five years of hard work and labor. I've not a penny to my purse, and my family cannot know where next month's meals will be found. I could give a damn for what I deserve." He tightened his hold on her arms, startling her with his firm grasp until he took her hands in his own. He clung to her for life and the promise of something more, and she nearly wept when she saw the truth in his eyes. "I only know what I want, Margaret, and I still want you."

In that moment, he was surprised by her. Another woman would've fainted from the tension in his words or recoiled from the severity of his embrace, but Margaret Hale only smiled. He imagined that she could see the tears he was afraid to shed, that she could put out the fires of fear that burned in his soul. The arc of her lips seemed to offer a veil of safety, and he relished it.

*****

She wanted to find a moment to collect her thoughts, but turning away from him was impossible. She was drawn to his eyes and the constancy of his gaze; she trusted him and delighted in his touch.

"I suppose you're wondering what brought me back to Milton."

"I don't care," he replied stubbornly, never relinquishing her from his embrace.

It was her turn to kiss him. She brushed her lips across his and wanted to laugh when he pulled her closer.

She heard nothing but the sound of her heartbeat, and she delighted in realizing she was happy. She imagined that her hair was in disarray, and the sunlight filtering through the window likely caught the rosy bruises of Thornton's affection on her lips. Still she did not care. She held him close and wanted to cry as she realized this was what she'd been waiting for.

"Though I do wonder," he mused, stepping back to look down at her. "Why did you come back?"

"Questions are interesting after all?" she wondered, but he brushed a curl away from her brow as he replied, "Only if the answers are worthwhile."

"I told you," she said softly, turning away from him in shyness. "I wanted to be happy."

"And you're happy here?"

"Quite," she beamed, taking his hand with a gentle press of her fingers. "I thought all was lost, that you must have felt well shut of me after all I put you through, but I couldn't…I couldn't resist coming back."

"Coming home?"

"Yes," she replied. "Coming home to you."

She nearly felt foolish. She heard herself murmuring the same sweet petals of sonnets and love notes she'd found in Edith's romance novels. She'd vowed time and again that only simple women could speak such silly drabble, but the words felt crisp and real on the tip of her tongue. To mean them is different than only to read or speak them, she thought. To mean them is to give them new life, just as he'd given new life to her heart.

"I did come back to talk of business, though," she said, suddenly remembering that she was not yet alone with her thoughts. Thornton looked on in a mild mixture of bemusement and curiosity, so she continued. "I know Mr. Bell was your landlord for some time, and I know that things at Marlborough Mills are less than ideal. I came to Milton so I might see if you could change your relationship to your landlord."

"I should hope so, Miss Hale," he said with a boyish smile that made her blush.

"No, I meant…what if I were to be an investor rather than just a landlord?" She saw the confusion and revelation pass across his features, but she continued. "Would you use it for the mill? I know you can make it into something worth having. Of course if it's too much to ask or if I'm being….to forward, I could retain the offer, but…"

She was at a loss for words. She thought she saw the smallest smile trace across his lips, but she wondered if twilight was bewitching.

"Well?"

*******

He could barely think, let alone speak, when he saw the earnest hope swimming in her eyes. He tried to summon the thought for a word or breath, but he could not. He managed only to take her hand in his own, touching the smooth, pale skin reaching down her wrist and feeling the rhythm of blood beneath her flesh.. He clasped her hand and drew it to his lips, humbled by the truth and devotion of her love.

He heard little of the world around him, but that was both a blessing and a curse. It was a gift because he could get lost in the music of her heartbeat, the smooth pitch and timbre of life flowing through her veins, but it was a curse because it disguised the sounds of the world beyond them. The humming noise of the mill was reduced to nothing, leaving them cocooned in their own embrace, but it also eliminated the quick steps hurrying down the hall in a rustle of satin.

The door swept open in a casual disregard for ceremony. Thornton wanted to tighten his grasp on Margaret, for he knew that the intrusion might push her away, but she was too quick. She moved from his embrace and lingered by the window, hoping her cheeks had not reddened to betray her affections.

"John, I—Oh. Miss Hale. I did not realize you were back in town," Fanny Watson said warily.

"I only just arrived. This morning, in fact," Margaret replied. She struggled to keep an even tone, but Thornton marveled at the composure of her performance. "I was just talking with Mr. Thornton about a business matter."

"Well, John has little interest in any ventures or schemes, and I'm sure you've heard that the mill is in dire trouble," Fanny added with a bitter cluck of her tongue. The look of achievement in her gaze made Thornton stiffen in resentment, but she continued, "I'm sure Mother will be quite interested to learn of all that happens behind closed doors." The threat in her words was enough to shake wind from the trees; to tell Hannah Thornton of any of this would create a storm of vitriol and accusations, and Fanny knew it.

Margaret replied before the axe could be dropped. "Actually, I've come to offer Mr. Thornton full possession of his lease, as well as some capital with which to rebuild the business."

"What?"

"What?"

Thornton could barely believe the scope of her offer, and Fanny was breathless to imagine a woman with such financial power.

"Yes. I've inherited a considerable sum, and I should like Mr. Thornton to use it in rebuilding the mill. I've been fortunate enough to receive…well, a fortune, and I have no use for it. After paying some small debts and setting aside a stipend to live on, there's more than enough for a good business venture. I hate to think of money gathering dust in a bank or in the cushions of someone's sewing box. I want it to work, or rather I want it to be more than fistfuls of paper."

"Fistfuls of paper?" Fanny breathed.

"Yes. I want the money to go towards the mill, and I want it to help the workers so they might make Marlborough Mills the chief earner of the county."

Fanny was speechless, and as she struggled for words and composure, Thornton was reminded of his love for Margaret Hale.


End file.
